They let him stay in there maybe fifteen minutes. At some point, he was too weak to stand under the hard and steady water flow, but he didn’t want it to end, so he just sat down and let the shower pelt down on him. A guard came to help him stand, and when he dried himself off, he was presented with new clothes. A crisp and clean blue work shirt, an equally fresh pair of chinos, thick white sweat socks, and a pair of sneakers.
He ran his fingers through his long hair, relishing the fact that it was no longer matted and gnarled. He kept grasping his beard with his fingertips; what felt normal in the isolation of his cell now felt coarse and strange and unnecessary. He wanted to rip the thick, bushy growth right out of his chin, and he started to pull it, hard, until he forced himself to close his eyes and relax, told himself that it was over, that he was going home, that he could deintensify his reactions and wait until he was in his own bathroom with a can of shaving cream and a razor. It was just a beard, he told himself, not a symbol of all he’d been through. It was something that could easily be removed when the time was right.
He could see other prisoners in their mesh pens. Justin looked for the man who’d come to see him in his cell, but was unable to pick him out of the crowd.
Two guards came and escorted him—half carried him because his legs were not working all that well—to a tin building that was set up as an office. It struck him as plush and rather luxurious. Justin was told to sit on a folding chair, which he did. The guards stood watching him for several minutes, but he knew that even if they left him alone, he didn’t have the energy to snoop or pry. He sat still until Starched Fatigues strode in and dismissed the guards. In daylight, in these surroundings, the man looked slightly older than Justin had believed him to be. And a bit smaller. Justin studied his face as the man sat behind a desk. The hair was visibly graying on the sides. His eyes had developed lines around them. His face, which was doing its best to look boyish, was beginning to reveal its age, as well as the pressures and traumas that lived inside it.
“You’ve been cleared of any wrongdoing,” he said, looking past Justin rather than at him.
Justin didn’t say anything. There was nothing he thought needed saying.
“You’ll be flown home today. I’ll be your military escort.”
Justin still didn’t respond. A slight tilt of the head was all.
“There is a very strong feeling that you were not acting in the best interests of your country, Mr. Westwood. You were moving into a very dangerous and suspicious territory. But we accept the fact that you were doing what you believed to be your job and didn’t understand the direction your investigation was taking you.”
Justin’s head tilted the other way now.
“I’m sure you’ll also want to know,” Starched Fatigues said, “that the terrorists responsible for the various attacks on our country have been eliminated. The immediate threat is over. We accept the fact that you were not in any way tied to this group.”
Justin couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “They were caught?”
“They were found. They resisted and were killed in a gun battle.”
“Who are they? Who were they?”
“It was a terrorist cell. Five of them were Iraq-connected. They hooked up with three suspected members of Al Qaeda who we’d been tracking for months. That’s how we found them.”
“How many were there?”
“Eight.”
“And they were all killed?”
“That’s correct.” Starched Fatigues shifted uncomfortably for a moment. “We’ll allow you to ask some questions if they relate to your investigation. We believe you deserve that much after the ordeal you’ve been put through.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Justin asked.
“I’ll allow you.”
“May I ask where the eight men were found?”
“They’d been moving around the country. We stopped them in Delaware.”
“Was anyone from our side killed in the gun battle?”
“Is there a reason for that question? Or an implication behind it?”
“I’m a cop. I like to know all sides of an equation.”
“Well, you’re not going to be allowed to know the different sides of this equation. Stick to your investigation. Or no more questions.”
Justin tried to focus. He knew he wouldn’t get a lot of leeway. “What was Hutchinson Cooke’s involvement?”
“Before I go into this, understand that this entire conversation is confidential. We will share information with you because we feel you’re entitled to it. But it cannot be shared outside this room.”
“If it is?”
“You’ve got some political clout behind you, Mr. Westwood.”
“That’s news to me.”
“Maybe. But you do. It’s one of the reasons you’re being released. That and the fact that many of the loose ends surrounding the bombings have been tied up. But if you ever talk about anything that you learn here or that happened to you here, you would be violating the security of the United States and a return visit could very well be justified.”
“That’s a good argument for confidentiality,” Justin said quietly.
Starched Fatigues gave what Justin thought was the closest he could come to a quick smile. “Captain Hutchinson Cooke was a traitor.”
“Can I get any elaboration?”
“We’ve interviewed many people who knew him at Andrews Air Force Base, including his commanding officer. Cooke apparently had become wildly political. Been studying the Koran. He’d spent many years flying to the Middle East. He made a lot of friends there and obviously was easily influenced. He’d become convinced that the government here was his enemy.”
Justin had enough energy to squint dubiously and say, “He wasn’t Arab.”
“Neither was the young man in northern California who went to Afghanistan and joined the Taliban. Just tragically misguided.”
“Cooke was working for a company called Midas.”
“That’s right. A Saudi-formed company, based in Iraq. They had an American branch, trying to do business here.”
“What kind of business?”
“Oil.”
“And were they doing business here?”
“Not really. They’d made contacts. It’s easy to make contacts in that business when you’re from the Middle East. But it seemed to basically be a shell. A terrorist front.”
“And . . . ?”
“And it’s been closed down. The people responsible for it have been arrested. They’re being dealt with.”
“How did Cooke pull off the doubleheader? How’d he work for Midas the same time he was supposed to be flying for the Air Force?”
“He was AWOL. It’s what led us to him in the first place. We’d been looking for him ever since his commanding officer made it official.”
Justin thought his head might burst. They had answers for everything. It was all getting tied up in a neat and seamless package. “Who killed Cooke?” he asked.
“We believe the crash could have been an accident. Although it’s possible it was suicide. Cooke flew Bashar Shabaan, the man who blew himself up at Harper’s, into the area. It’s possible he felt remorse when he realized the consequences of his support. Or fear because he realized he’d be caught.”
“And his wife?”
“Also involved with the cell. Our people believe she became unhinged after the Harper’s incident. When Cooke died, she blamed America and our government. She was clearly deranged or she couldn’t have done what she did.”
Justin spoke very slowly and carefully. “You’re saying she was involved in the McDonald’s bombing?”
“Yes.”
“She blew up her own children?”
“These are very sick, evil people we’re dealing with.”
“Yeah,” Justin said. “They sure are.”
“We’re not going to be revealing to the public what I just told you. It wouldn’t do us any good to announce that a U.S. military man had
switched sides, and ultimately it’s not really relevant to the story.”
“But you’re telling me.”
“As I said, your investigation of Captain Cooke is what led you here. We believe you deserve to know the truth.”
“What about Martin Heffernan?”
“Heffernan did us a favor. He happened to be on the spot, saw Cooke’s ID, and called Cooke’s commanding officer. Zanesworth had been alerted that Cooke was under investigation and he immediately contacted us.”
“‘Us’ meaning . . .”
“Meaning those of us directly involved in the war on terrorism.”
“So you guys told Heffernan to wipe the plane clean, take any ID . . . ”
“We made the connection immediately. As I said, we’d been suspicious of Cooke and his wife for some time. We made an immediate decision to keep their involvement quiet. You can question that decision, it was not made easily, but it’s the one that was made and it’s one we’re not deviating from.”
“Why didn’t you question Theresa? After her husband died, she could have been a valuable source.”
“Who says we didn’t question her?”
“Well . . .” Justin hesitated. “She did.”
“Was she nervous when you spoke to her? Jumpy? Frightened?”
“Yes.”
“That’s because we were putting the screws on her. She gave up valuable information right away but we didn’t let up. It’s largely through the information we gathered from her interrogation that we found the cell in Delaware. She was guilty as hell, that woman.”
Justin stayed silent, trying to poke holes in the story he was hearing. But he wasn’t sharp enough. He was too overcome with fatigue.
“Is that it for your questions?” Starched Fatigues asked.
“What about Heffernan’s death?”
“A tragic coincidence. Conspiracy theorists would have a field day with that one, but it’s absolutely true. The guy was a regular at a restaurant and somebody else decided to blow that restaurant up.”
Starched Fatigues reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a bottle and two small paper cups, the same cups Justin had been served water in during his incarceration. The cups were white and flimsy, the kind one got in a dentist’s office.
“You know,” the man behind the desk said, “in my job you have to get used to one thing: how much people hate you. You can see it in their eyes. Their whole face, really.”
“Must be tough.”
“Not really. I never minded very much. It’s understandable, their hatred. I talk to people who have secrets. Their job, and sometimes their passion, is to keep those secrets. My job is to find out what they are. Cross-purposes. It’s like the Arabs and the Jews. Or cowboys and Indians. It’s hard not to hate the person who’s trying to take what you’ve got. I mention all this because I thought you should know, I can see in your face how much you hate me. But there’s nothing else you’ve got that I want to take, so it’s wasted effort on your part. And ultimately, it can’t do you any good.”
The soldier filled both cups halfway, the equivalent of two shot glasses.
“We are not apologizing to you, Mr. Westwood, but that doesn’t mean we don’t sometimes regret the actions that have to be taken when serving our country.” He handed one cup to Justin, who, as he leaned forward, saw the label on the liquor bottle for the first time.
“Havana Club,” Justin said.
“Fourteen-year-old Havana Club. The best rum in the world. It’s like fine cognac.”
“Cuban.”
“We are in Cuba, after all. It’s the worst thing about the damn embargo—you can’t buy this stuff at home. It’s liquid gold.”
“Can’t get this in America? Anywhere?”
Starched Fatigues shook his head. “There’s got to be some reward for being stuck in such a godforsaken place.”
Justin took a sip of light brown liquid. It scorched his throat as it went down and filled his belly with heat. But the flame that spread inside his stomach didn’t compare to the flame that was raging inside his head. He remembered sitting in Theresa Cooke’s kitchen and Theresa showing him the exact same bottle, saying her husband had brought it back from a Midas-related trip to Florida.
This is Cuban, Terry. Not from Florida, he’d said.
I know, she’d told him. Hutch said they sold it in Florida ’cause there are so many Cubans there. Refugees.
Another one of Hutch Cooke’s clues? Another part of the game he thought he was playing to win?
“Ever tasted it before?” Starched Fatigues asked.
“I saw a bottle once, but I never tasted it.”
“And?”
“It’s extraordinary,” Justin said.
The soldier stood from behind his desk, downed the rum in one quick swallow, dropped the cup on his desk. Justin watched it teeter before toppling on its side.
“Time to go,” the soldier said.
Justin, too, downed his rum, stood up, and his legs immediately gave way. He stumbled to the desk, grabbed on to it for support. Starched Fatigues grabbed his arm to keep him steady.
“There’ll be food on the flight,” the soldier said. “Sandwiches. It’ll give you some strength.”
“Thank you,” Justin said. “Sorry, the rum must’ve gotten to me.” He gently pulled himself away from the other man’s grasp. “I think I’m okay now.”
Starched Fatigues walked him to a small plane parked on a runway no more than seventy-five yards from where they’d been sitting. Halfway there, they were joined by a pilot. The pilot made no acknowledgment of Justin’s existence and Justin returned the favor. Before they boarded, Starched Fatigues pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and indicated that Justin should put his hands behind his back. He did as instructed and was cuffed. No apology was made. Starched Fatigues simply said, “Precautionary.”
As they stepped up into the plane, Starched Fatigues grabbed the back of Justin’s shirt. He didn’t grab him too tightly, just enough to hold him back.
“Your investigation is over,” he said. “You do understand that. There’s nothing more you can accomplish.”
Justin nodded. “I understand,” he said.
“Just so you know, if it was up to me, I would have killed you. But I have to follow orders.”
“Orders from who?”
“That doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“It does to me.”
“What matters is that the orders are for here and now. You keep screwing around in this thing, those orders won’t apply anymore. And I’ll be free to do what I think should have been done in the first place.”
Starched Fatigues let his fingers relax. He and the pilot climbed into the front of the plane. Justin was put in the cramped backseat. It was the same kind of plane he’d been flown down there in; the same kind of plane that Hutchinson Cooke crashed. Before takeoff, Justin leaned forward and said to Starched Fatigues, “Hey, what’s today’s date?”
“December twenty-first. You’ll be home in time for Christmas.”
Justin leaned back, but suddenly moved his head forward again. Into Starched Fatigue’s ear he said, “So, since we’re flying companions, do I get to know your name?”
The man’s head swiveled around and Justin saw another thin-lipped smile. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Some things do have to remain secret.”
“I guess they do,” Justin said. And as he spoke he could feel the flimsy paper cup that was tucked into the right pocket of his khakis, the cup he’d picked up off the desk when he’d pretended to stumble. He had handled it carefully, barely lifting it with his fingertips, trying to touch only the rim, and gently easing it into his pants as they’d walked.
Some things do have to remain secret, Justin thought.
And as the plane began to taxi, as it rocked back and forth and then lifted off the ground, Justin smiled, too.
The first smile he’d managed since he’d been in this hellhole.
It felt even
better than the water and the soap and the sunshine because he knew, as long as he was careful, that this was one man whose secrets he was going to learn.
Merry Christmas to me, he thought.
31
She came running as soon as he called.
He dialed her cell phone because he didn’t want to speak to anyone else at the station; the more he thought about it, the more his plan developed in his head, he knew it would be better if as few people as possible knew he was back in town. But he called Reggie because he had to call Reggie.
When she stepped into his living room there was an awkward moment. They had never had a chance to relax as lovers or even savor a moment of the passion they’d shared, so neither was exactly sure how to act. Reggie took the lead when she really saw him—saw the weight he’d lost, and the bruises on his face, and the combination of pain and relief in his eyes. She went to stand in front of him, then put her arms around him. She didn’t kiss him, just laid her head down on his shoulder, comforting him and letting him know how much comfort he gave her.
When she backed away a step she smiled at him. It was an anxious smile. She reached back for his face, put her palm on his thick beard and stroked it.
“I’ll shave it,” he said.
She shook her head. “No. It feels like a part of you right now and I want all parts of you to be here.”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
“There are so many things I want to tell you. And ask you.”
“Me too. But we’ve got lots of time now.” He touched her chest, the spot where he’d seen her shot. “How are you?”
“I thought I was dead when he pulled the trigger. But I was just sore for a few days. It wasn’t bad at all.”
“That was the worst part of it for me. I couldn’t even let myself think about what had happened to you.”
“It’s over now,” she said. “Isn’t it?” And when he didn’t answer, she continued, “It’s on the Net and we’ve all been watching the news all day long. They caught all the people responsible for everything, Jay.”
“I know they have.”
“So it’s really over. Everything can go back to normal.”
Midas Page 30